


Sinalagma

by manosoutas



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff, GAY GAY GAY, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9715910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manosoutas/pseuds/manosoutas
Summary: "Fifty-Fifty?"Roadhog smile is noticeable even behind the mask."Fifty-Fifty."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Sinalagma](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322553) by [manosoutas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manosoutas/pseuds/manosoutas). 



> I found this translation while looking between my drafts, and honestly, i can't remember if i was the one who fully translated it, or if tumblr user @soyarepera helped, so i'm mentioning them anyways. 
> 
> The original is mine, yes, i wrote it in spanish, so maybe there are some linguistic inaccuracies and stuff like that. Also everything sounds better in your native tongue, it's works like that, nothing can be done about it
> 
> Today's Valentine's day, so why not just, leave this here and maybe make someone's day easier. And even more given what the official European OW account has said https://www.facebook.com/OverwatchEU/posts/1073050086129625?comment_id=1073063432794957&reply_comment_id=1073132209454746&notif_t=share_reply&notif_id=1487082688010322, like, I have already told them via twitter what I think about this gaybaiting, but if you agree with me, tell them too. Blizzard is listening, tell them that gaybaiting is never okay, and that being gay is not a joke. Maybe, like that, they'll listen.

Junkrat’s squeaky laughter echoes through the streets, as piercing as a hyena’s, partially drowned out by the roar of the engine and the honking police sirens. And, though his face is hidden, he knows that Roadhog is also happy, her throaty laugh barely able to be heard, the vibration of his chest and throat betraying him. Junkrat falls silent, his mania replaced by pure joy by seeing his colleague having as much fun as him. His huge hands seem relaxed over the handlebars of the motorcycle, holding them with confidence and aplomb, suddenly increasing the speed when the police approaches.

Oops.

Too distracted by those big hands to hold to the sidecar properly. And for a moment, his scrawny body seems to fly off with the increasing speed. A huge hand holds it in place, though. Warm, strong. Safe. Junkrat gulps, and laughs again, softer, dismissively.

" Ta’, ‘Hog! "

The aforementioned answers with a grunt, as usual. Not a man of many words, he prefers it when actions speak for him. Perfect for Junkrat, he didn’t hire him for the conversation. And he can always talk for both of them.

Nevertheless, he stretches, and opens his mouth, his tongue out, enjoying the wind and speed, like a dog poking out the window of a car. The sound of sirens get farther, and farther, and it comes a moment when only the engine, and their own breaths, are heard. Junkrat laughs, one, two, several times, and extends his hand of flesh and blood to his colleague, who responds giving him a high five, with the calculated softness of someone who could break bones almost accidentally. The thought sends a direct shock to his brain, and he smiles absent-mindedly. He can almost feel Roadhog raising an eyebrow, silently judging him, but he only responds with a chuckle.

It is then when, concentrated on Roadhog’s bare arm, that something on it draws his attention. Junkrat blinks a few times, trying to focus, his eyes and thoughts. Red. Smells like burning flesh and metal. His brain quickly puts two and two.

" 'Hog, yer shoulder."

"It’s nothing."

He knows that his mate is not exactly lying, it's just a flesh wound on the shoulder, probably the result of a bullet barely brushing his skin. He frowns, trying to remember the time that such an injury could have occurred, but doesn’t succeed. He opens his mouth, ready to ask, but 'Hog interrupts him, easily guessing his thoughts.

"The bullet went for yer arm. Would have ruined yer tattoo. "

It is impossible not to smile like an idiot at such a confession. Junkrat pounces on him in an attempt to hug him, even if it looks more like a tackle, his affection still wild and uncivilized. But, God, he tries. He knows that 'Hog appreciates the effort. He pushes him aside, however.

"Not while driving."

Junkrat pouts, but doesn’t push it, vibrating slightly on his seat, happiness and mania intertwining. He tries to be still, but gives up after a few seconds, trying to distract himself the best way he knows.

He checks his grenades, one by one, more because of routine than necessity, the sound of the engine cooing him progressively. He can afford himself a nap, his grenades in perfect condition and deactivated.

A giant hand on his shoulder makes him wake up and open your eyes suddenly, clucking and frowning at the sudden pain in his head, right after waking, as always, as if his brain tried to weave the threads between dream and reality, seemingly a hard task. The remains of the dream dissipate, and a few seconds later, he cannot even remember their content. The feeling is still there, though, and he shakes his head. Roadhog’s hand is still on his shoulder, and thinking of the possibility that his friend is worried about him makes his heart twist.

He rises from the sidecar, each of his stiff muscles aching and figurately screaming, but he ignores them, and stretches when he stands up. An idea crosses his head while climbing the stairs of the sleazy motel where they are passing the night. He can not help but grin, and he starts plotting.

"Hey, 'Hog. C’mon, i’ll help ya’ heal that. "

"Can do it myself."

"Come on, man, let me do that for you!"

He congratulates himself, internally (and perhaps externally), when Roadhog seems to allow it, sitting on the floor and waiting for him to take the necessary tools.

First, he examines the wound, holding Roadhog’s arm with his hand , the one of flesh and blood, perhaps for more time than needed. The wound is superficial, and does not need any kind of suture. So, he just cleans the blood and disinfects the wound, grinning because 'Hog refuses to move a muscle, even if it must sting like bloody hell. But Roadhog is the strong and silent type, after all.

"Want me to bandage it? It’s still bleeding a little. "

The aforementioned lets out a grunt, which is commonly translated to "do what you want." And Junkrat doesn’t need any excuse to touch him a little more, to return the favor, for all the protection and all that shit, because although 'Hog has his own share of the profit (happily stored in garbage bags), a part of himself wishes to thank him for his effort in a more ... personal way.

That’s why, when the wound is firmly secured (his tendency to get hurt in excess gave him plenty of experience healing wounds, after all), he curls up besides him, careful not to touch his shoulder, his good hand stroking Roadhog knee in a way that tries to be casual ... and failing, of course.

"No." growls Roadhog, after a sigh. Junkrat protest, raising his arms like an enraged teenager.

"But whyyyy? We've already fucked like, a thousand times! "

"Not like this."

"Like what?"

Junkrat does not understand. He does not understand what's wrong with wanting to show his gratitude like that. He does it very willingly.

"Not as payment."

Oh. The answer makes Junkrat’s frenetic brain work, and he reaches a conclusion ... so very ridiculous and adorable that makes his ears warm up slightly.

"Ya’ care about me. Roadie, oh, you do care. Didn’t know you were such a sweetheart, and a gentleman... well, yup, I knew you were, but- "

"Shut. Up."

"Roadieeeeeeeee ..."

And before Roadhog can get up and leave him alone with his own misery, Junkrat hugs him again, giggling.

"Careful with the wound."

"Oops."

Roadhog’s huge hand messes the singed hair up, even more, holding his whole head, effortlessly, making his heart race. When Roadhog moves it to his back, slightly stroking his skin, slowly, Junkrat almost purrs, smiling with closed eyes.

"This is ... not a payment. Just wanna make you have a good time, mate, nothing else."

"Junkrat ..."

"I'm serious. I, fuck, I’m grateful for ... for those bloody hands that God has given you. "

"My hands?"

He senses disbelief in his voice, and 'Rat laughs. He would have to be blind not to admire such hands, the way they fight and destroy, the way in which envelop him and make him wince, those fingertips stroking him, firmly and gently; causing him to lose track of time and space. Who wouldn’t love hands like those.

"Your hands, your bloody hands, mate, they’re like ..." he tries to explain, to find the words, with no avail. He makes a loud sound, like explosions, that cause him a similar joy. Roadhog finally understands, and laughs.

"I like your hands, too."

"What? Yer serious? My hand is too tiny! Not strong. With these scrawny-ass fingers. Not like you, you could tear a bloke apart with those! I don’t get it."

'Hog is looking at him. He knows, even with his eyes closed. It is one of his sweeping, powerful glares, similar to when he has it fixed on a target, and is about to reduce them to shreds. But it’s infinitely sweeter. Junkrat feels himself flinch, Roadhog hand gently descending, his thumb caressing down his spine until he runs into the fabric of his pants.

"I can show it to you. And you can show me, in return."

Junkrat lets out a laugh, slightly creaky, tainted with excitement and desire.

"Fifty-Fifty?"

Roadhog smile is noticeable even behind the mask.

"Fifty-Fifty."


End file.
